


Boston Cream

by jerseydevious



Series: CEC Shorts [7]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, help dev took over my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 05:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18685108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerseydevious/pseuds/jerseydevious
Summary: Bruce has a malaria relapse and Dev buys donuts. That's it. That's just it.





	Boston Cream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [audreycritter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/gifts).



> Oops

Dev’s pocket vibrated. He slipped out his cell, glanced at the ID, and said, “Hullo, mate.” 

 

The line in front of him moved forward a step as the server behind the counter shouted, “Bethany!” and passed off a paper bag with a smiling duck embellished on the side to a woman with a blonde pixie cut. Around him, there was the soft roar of a lot of people packed into a donut shop several sizes too small to hold the lot of them. 

 

_ “You’re alive,” _ Bruce answered, which was most likely the worst way to answer anyone on the phone. 

 

“And about to eat a donut, if you want one,” Dev said. “They’ve chocolate on chocolate here, mate, and I know that’s your K.”

 

_ “I thought you were dead.”  _

 

“Yeah, well, you were wrong about that one. What’s in your head, ‘side from my favorite brain?” Dev asked. 

 

There was a rustling on the other end of the line.  _ “M’in your house.”  _

 

“Can you check and see if I’ve left the stove on, yeah?”

 

_ “It’s on.”  _

 

Dev whistled through his teeth. “Shite. Stove off, if you would. Then plant your arse on my sodding couch and don’t move until I’ve brought you a donut and some coffee.” 

 

_ “Are you okay.”  _

 

“What? I’m not the one thinking I’m dead.” 

 

_ “You left the stove on.”  _

 

“Left in a bit of a rush. I’m quite excited for this donut, to be sodding honest. I woke up with a craving for Boston cream. You’re on the couch, yeah?”

 

_ “Yes.” _

 

“Good. Remote’s on the table, if you’ve a need for background noise.” 

 

_ “Just don’t stop talking,”  _ Bruce said, and a space had opened up in the line in front of Dev, but Dev didn’t step forward to fill it. He was rooted to the spot by something in Bruce’s voice, some odd, sharp edge that had cut him right to the quick of bone.

 

Dev forced himself to step forward and say, “I think I’ve a mind to buy half a dozen. Three for you, three for me. You’ll eat the ones I don’t, anyway. How’s that sound?”

 

_ “Hn.” _

 

“Way to sound enthusiastic. I’m doing it anyway, you arse, to make a point about how I’ve only good ideas and no rotten ones.” 

 

_ “You dared me to eat an earthworm once.”  _

 

“You’re the one who did it, mate.” 

 

_ “Do you need me to come there,” _ Bruce said.  _ “You have to walk back. There’s—you could—”  _

 

_ There’s alleyways, you could die, _ were the unfinished puzzle pieces of that sentence; something apprehensive clawed at Dev’s gut. It’d been a while, since Bruce had been in such a way. 

 

“Wayne,” Dev said, seriously, “you’ve taught me well. I’m no Black Canary but I do alright.” 

 

_ “Dinah would wipe the floor with you.”  _

 

“Across the pond we call that a ‘no-sodding-brainer’, but that’s fine, it’s your American water making you slow. I’m next. So I’ll hang up and call you back, right?”

 

“Hn.”

 

“I’ll stay alive, promise.”

 

“If you don’t,” Bruce warned, “you would do well to come back from the dead.” 

 

Dev tapped the end call button and clicked the phone off. He put on an awkward smile for the cashier and said, “Three double chocolate, three Boston cream, please?”

 

“Nice accent,” the boy—according to the nametag, Jonathan—said. “Eleven seventy-five. Can I get a name?”

 

Dev dug his card out of his wallet and swiped it. “Uh, Dev, please, Jonathan.” 

 

Jonathan looked at him. “Do you mean your name is Dev or your name is Jonathan?”

 

“Jonath—no, fuck, er. Dev, my name is Dev.”

 

Jonathan snatched the receipt from the printer and handed it to him. “Dev Jonathan, here’s your receipt.” 

 

Dev took it, nodded awkwardly, and went to stand in the furthest dark corner of the shop he could, muttering, “Wanker,” as he walked away. 

 

He dialed Bruce’s number and waited. When it picked up, he said, “Help me, why is speaking to people so sodding bloody terrible.” 

 

_ “You’re speaking to a person now.”  _

 

“You’re not a sodding person, you’re a robot coded with justice.” 

 

_ “You are definitely alive.” _

 

“Definitely. Not a recording, either. Just told the cashier my name was Jonathan. I’ll be embarrassed about that all week.” 

 

_ “I was on a date once and I had to steal her purse so I could throw up into it.” _   
  


“Eugh.” 

 

_ “Antitoxin had a bad reaction with—hold on.”  _

 

Dev tapped his fingers on his thigh while he waited. Eventually, there was a long groan, and Dev asked, “Did you just throw up?”

 

_ “How’d you know.”  _

 

“That’s your throw-up noise. The ‘ah fuck I’ve done it again’ one.” 

 

The,  _ “Hnh,” _ he got in reply was more impressed than anything.    
  
“Jonathan!” the lady behind the counter called. 

 

“Sod it all,” Dev hissed. 

 

-

 

Dev jammed his key into the lock, balancing the box of donuts in his other hand. He swung the door open and said, “Dearest, I’m home—” and then a dark shape barreled into him. 

 

“You’re alive,” was the ragged voice in his ear. 

 

Dev patted Bruce’s shoulder. “Not for long if you keep squeezing my lungs like that, okay?”   
  


Bruce stumbled backwards with all the coordination of a newborn lamb, knocking into the kitchen counter, sending a candle rocketing to the floor. “You hung up,” he said. 

 

“The phone cut out. Happens, that, in elevators,” Dev said. He passed off the box of donuts to Bruce, who stared down at it like he’d never seen donuts nor a box before. 

 

“Set those on the counter, if you would, and then get your sodding arse back on the couch,” Dev said. He gestured to the couch, which had a nest of blankets where Bruce had been; it was good, at least, that Bruce had been listening to him. 

 

Bruce slid them on the counter. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out—he was swaying dangerously. Dev darted over and snaked an arm under Bruce’s, pushing against Bruce’s weight.

 

“You’re alright,” Dev said. “You’ve come down with something. You’re alright.”

 

“M’sorry,” Bruce mumbled. 

 

“Don’t be.”

 

Dev half-carried Bruce to the couch and eased him down, pulling a couple of the blankets back over him. Bruce’s eyes drifted shut—but Dev could see the movement of Bruce’s eyes beneath their lids. Dev cupped Bruce’s forehead and it was burning hot, covered in sweat. 

 

“Shite,” Dev cursed, and he got up and walked to the kitchen, where he pulled a thermometer from the cabinet. After tipping it into Bruce’s mouth, it beeped, showing a reading of a hundred and four. “No sodding wonder you thought I was dead, then. You’ve a knack for sounding okay when you’re not, it’s right annoying.” 

 

Bruce twisted, eyes squeezing shut—there were dark shadows beneath them, and Dev thought maybe Bruce had come to him later than he needed to, the idiot. Dev ran a hand through Bruce’s matted hair and Bruce sucked in a breath, something desperate and small. 

 

“You’re in danger,” Bruce gasped out. “You’re in danger. Someone’s going to kill you. That can’t happen. You have to—”

 

“I’m with Batman. I’m perfectly safe. How long have you been sick, Wayne?”

 

Bruce’s glassy eyes focused on Dev. “Bane,” he said. 

 

Alarm rung down Dev’s spine. “I’m not Bane, mate.”

 

“It hurts,” Bruce said. “Doesn’t it. Since _ —fuck.” _ Bruce spasmed again, choking as he did so. 

 

Dev knelt down beside him and took one of his hands. It was covered in silvery, rippling scars, concentrated over the knuckles, which were all tough and hardened tissue. “Wayne,” he said, “where does it hurt.” 

 

“He—he broke me,” Bruce whispered. “Left me in the street. I was nothing. I wasn’t Batman. I was broken.” 

 

“I’ve pain meds for you in the bathroom cabinet,” Dev said. “Can I leave to go get them?”   
  


The hand in Dev’s squeezed. “Don’t, don’t, he’s waiting. Like a tree falling down. It sounds like a tree falling down.” 

 

“What does?”

 

“Back,” Bruce said, hoarsely. 

 

Dev brought Bruce’s hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to one of the discolored knuckles, just the way he’d seen Alfred do, and then he pulled his hand free. “Bruce. I will be back in five seconds. I can’t help you if you’re set to bite through your tongue from pain.” 

 

He didn’t watch Bruce’s face as he straightened and left for the bathroom, because he was ultimately what Bruce was not; a sodding fucking coward. He snatched the bottle from the medicine cabinet with hands steadied by will. He always kept a supply here, because Bruce was so reluctant to show pain in front of others sometimes he hid in Dev’s own apartment—and maybe it spread a special kind of warmth through Dev’s chest, that implicit trust.

 

“Sit up, sit up,” Dev said, dropping the pill bottle by the table and darting into the kitchen. He poured a quick glass of water and darted back, pressing the cup into Bruce’s hand. He shook out two pills into Bruce’s waiting palm. 

 

Bruce knocked them back and chugged the whole glass. “That’s it,” Dev said. “Stay hydrated, yeah? I’ll make you another one. We need to talk about symptoms.” 

 

“Malaria,” Bruce mumbled. “I know this. I know this. Bane before Bane. I was dying on the street.” 

 

Dev’s heart constricted. “You’re alive, mate. I’m alive. You’ve kicked the arse of every bloody thing you’ve come across. You were Batman even lying half-dead on the street. You’ve always been.” 

 

Bruce slumped forward into Dev’s chest, tucking his face into Dev’s shoulder, like a switch had flipped and the world had suddenly become too much. Dev rubbed his back in wide circles, and said, “Batman isn’t something anyone or anything can take away from you, Wayne.”

 

Bruce exhaled shakily. “Goin’ to sleep,” he mumbled. 

 

“Wayne, I’ve got to—”

 

Bruce wrapped his arms around Dev and flopped back on the couch, Dev trapped against his chest. “Goodnight,” he said. 

 

Dev wriggled a bit, testing his bonds; he found them to be about as solid as steel. “Ten minutes. Ten minutes, and then you let me up, you big parasite.” 

 

“Good enough for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Double oops


End file.
